Tell

Or words spoken,

Not level, or ruled over.

No longer tied to the tongue.

But words none the less, wise

Works, not of greatness,

Or of tangled intrigue,

Or of The Mabinogi.

The red and the white.

The saved quad of eleven.

For herein

There a souls,

Where Three is held high,

Not in logic, but in a serious embrace.

It is nothing of magic.

On this abacus of fate

By calculation, there is more to life than the mere

Meeting of the eye.

Charged by friction

We a drawn to our centre

Like ice raining from space

Down to the clouds of Saturn

And below.

C2019. Christopher Thompson.

2 thoughts on “Tell

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